by Jane Davitt

Mike's bent over Harvey's desk, his hands planted on the surface, legs spread, ass up, head down. Harvey studies the view from the door, and tries to quell the resulting surge of emotions as he crosses the room.

He manages to dismiss surprise and a certain amount of annoyance at being shown something he can't have that he wants, but the room would have to be the size of a football field for his arousal to fade to nothing.

Mike's not wearing a jacket and the shape of his ass is there for Harvey to see. For anyone to see, which is another reason for the small prick of irritation he feels. The position Mike's in means that when he stands his shirt will need tucking in again at the back to neaten him. One tug and it would come free of Mike's pants, easily pushed up to expose pale skin and the random pattern of freckles Harvey's already memorized, scattered across Mike's back lightly, randomly.

Harvey walks over to his desk without hurrying, projecting nothing but his usual bored, brisk air of confidence. Donna's at lunch with a friend, thank God. She'd have picked up on his mood even through the closed door.

He comes up behind Mike, putting his body between Mike and the glass wall, and closes his hand briefly around Mike's neck, collaring him, claiming him. Hair that needs cutting and the stiff collar of Mike's shirt prevent his palm from finding only warm, smooth skin, but he's touched Mike, made him breathe in sharply and shudder -- it's enough, and he can smile as he drops his hand and leans over to see what Mike's looking at.

"Hey, Harvey," Mike says absently, as if a moment before his body hadn't responded with that small, reflexive shiver of lust, as if he hadn't glanced up at Harvey, a sidelong flicker of amused acknowledgement that yes, he's in trouble even if he's not sure why. "How did it go with Ripley Junior?"

"He's as much of an asshole as his late father, but he'll bring in too much business for me to ever point that out to him."

Mike snorted. "Yeah, because you're so tolerant of assholes."

"Mm." Harvey taps his finger -- has Mike ever had a manicure? If not, that has to change -- against the open file. "We cleared this last week. Why is it out on my desk?"

And why are you leaning against it like you want me to fuck you when I wasn't even in the room?

He won't ask that question. He'll find out the answer for himself.

Mike shakes his head. "There's something about it that's bugging me. Something I missed."

"I cleared it," Harvey says and hears the sharpness in each word, blade-thin and cutting. "I don't miss --"

"No, no, nothing like that. A me thing, not a you thing." Mike's attention is given over wholly to page thirteen of a sixty-plus page report. Harvey resists the urge to tear it out and crumple it into a tight ball. "Oh my God. Yes! Yes, you little fucker --"

"Language," Harvey snaps automatically, his hand itching to apply itself to Mike's ass for that slip. The word itself isn't a problem, but their location is. In bed, Mike can beg to be fucked and be as crude as he likes, but here, no. Here, Harvey wants the outward signs of respect, too, the cherry on the cake.

"There." Mike stabs his finger at the page and Harvey reads the section twice before he spots the duplication of 'the' at the end of a line.

"That's it?" He can't keep the incredulity out of his voice, but it's swamped a moment later by the realization that Mike had skimmed the page days earlier and, like the princess sleeping on a pea, known that something was wrong. Known it, been bothered by it, been obsessed to the point of tracking it down.

That's…something he'd do.

He sits in his chair and smiles up at Mike, who's straightened, a pleased flush on his thin face. "Good boy."

Mike ducks his head, runs his hand through his already messy hair. "Nah. Kind of crazy spending time on it --"

"I was going to point that out as it happens. We don't pay you to proofread."

"But it's my lunch hour."


Harvey leans back and studies Mike. "Interesting choice of position for reading. I do have chairs and you are allowed to use them."

"I wasn't sitting on your desk," Mike says quickly, defensively.

"But you were touching it. Leaning over it." Harvey's voice is silky, reasonable, even kind. He wants Mike to know exactly how non-negotiable his punishment will be. "Do you have any idea what you looked like from the door?"

"Like a man reading a report?"

Harvey shakes his head, still smiling. "I got hard crossing the room. Is that enough of a clue?"

Mike glances to the side, laughing in a way that tells Harvey he's flustered, unhappy. "Harvey, c'mon. I wasn't -- I was just --"

"You're defending yourself?" Harvey raises his eyebrows. "Interesting. Maybe I misread the situation. Why don't you assume the position again and I'll take a second look."

"I can't." Mike's face is hot with embarrassment. "Not with you sitting there."

"If you're worried about people looking in, don't be. The walls are glass, but this is still my space. No one stares in here."

That's actually not far from the truth. And most people are out of the office right now, stuffing over-priced food into their mouths and chewing fast.

"Do it. Now," Harvey adds softly.

Mike swallows visibly, his throat working and moves, stiffly, awkwardly, smacking his palms down on the desk, leaning in so that if Harvey wanted to he could kiss that hot face, those tightly folded lips.

He won't. Not here. Later, yes. He loves kissing Mike and feeling him melt and shiver, the soft, shy sweep of Mike's tongue against his.

"Your legs were wider. More. Yes, that's it." He meets Mike's gaze, the exchanged looks as intimate as fucking Mike would be. Mike's still trying to hide some reactions from Harvey, but he's getting worse at it every day. Harvey knows so much of what Mike likes now and everything he craves.

"You've aroused me at work. I think I've told you how I feel about that."

"It's not my fault!"

Harvey shakes his head. "It is if I say it is and I do."

"Fuck you," Mike grits out, but he doesn't move so Harvey isn't really worried. If he was to walk around his desk, slip his hand down past the thunderous beat of Mike's heart, the flat stomach to Mike's cock, he'd find it hard and ready. He's yet to touch Mike's cock and feel it as a curl of soft flesh.

"Would you like to?" he asks and watches Mike's mouth fall open. "Poor Mike, you can't quite decide, can you?" He pretends to wince in sympathy. "On the face of it, you get your cock up my ass and believe me, it's as close as you'll get to heaven. But you're not sure you'll do it well enough to impress me and going into something like that doubting yourself…I think we both know it won't end with me begging for more the way you do when I fuck you."

Mike straightens and smirks at him. It's like looking in a mirror. "You're kidding, right? I'd love to."

"Really." No point in hiding his skepticism.

Mike licks his lips, which could be anticipation or nerves. "Really. I mean, I've never been on that end of things, so I might hurt you, but no pain, no gain and you know it wouldn't be deliberate, right? And there's that whole fingers first thing and my nails are on the ragged side, but I'll chew them down a bit before I come over. What's the etiquette? Do I bring the lube or would it be like that time I brought the wine and you emptied it down the sink because you said the drains needed cleaning?"

Harvey stares at him and wonders just when he lost control of the conversation.

He thinks it might have been when he -- obliquely -- called Mike a slut.

The next words out of his mouth hurt as much as his ass would if he ever let Mike near it, which he doesn't plan to do, not yet anyway. One day, yes. He wants to stare up at Mike's face and watch its expression break and shift like a kaleidoscope, see Mike come without being too distracted.

"I'm sorry."

Mike nods, sharp and fast, his head bobbing. "Yeah. Yeah, you'd better be."

"You were leaning on my desk."

Mike doesn't look away from Harvey's face, but he licks his palm and places it down on the clean, polished surface, leaving it smudged. "Punish me for this if you want, but not for that."

Harvey nods and picks up his pen. "Ten o'clock then. And Mike?" He flicks his fingers at the file. "Don't let your talent rule you. It was just a typo."

Mike frowns at him. "I didn't mind that. I minded me missing it."

"Ah." Harvey shrugs and offers Mike some comfort. "You caught it in the end."

"It took me eleven days."

Sometimes, there's no point in being sympathetic and comforting.

There's no one, absolutely no one in sight. Harvey stands, walks around the desk, and pushes Mike down onto it in an ungainly sprawl.

Eleven fast swats don't take long to deliver and when he has, he hauls Mike up and smiles into blank, dazed eyes. "Next time, you'll be faster."

Mike gets points for not reaching back to rub his stinging ass.

Double points for the wavering, giddy grin of astonished, shocked delight that Harvey's broken his own rules so comprehensively for no reason but to make Mike feel better.

"Don't count on it."

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